Champions Of Violent Men

The Cave Of Destiny

Baba Sumbay left his hut to praise the land and sky spirits for the morning and smile at the rise of the mighty twin suns. There he saw the familiar sight of Jaro playing with some of the young boys of the village. Jaro, now in his late teens, was surely too old for this type of tom foolery, especially now he’d been accepted into the chiefs guard. But none the less seeing the boy play in his element always put a smile on Baba Sumbay’s face. Baba Sumbay knew at age 79, his time amongst the living was numbered and that soon he would join his fallen brothers and sisters in the realm of ancestors. So in these last years, he was happy to see his only son, still joyful as when he was a child. He called over to Jaro.

“I see you there. Have you helped take the harvest to the Chief? Or are you expecting Mama or I to do it for you in our old age?”

Baba Sumbay already knew the answer to the question, as he could see that the wheat, maze and plantains were baking in the summer heat, aloft the cart. The Donkeys were not even prepped for their journey and remained eeeawing in their paddock.

Jaro came to his father and prostrated on the ground in front of Baba, for it was the first time he had seen him that day.

“Sorry Baba.” He said apologetically. “I got distracted. I was winning at Mancala, against the boys.”

“And do you not think you might be too old to be playing with the children? You’re a man now son. And men cannot afford to spend all their time playing games like children can they? For if he neglects his duties, the children who you think are having fun would themselves starve, would they not?”

“Yes Baba.”

“And can children with groaning, empty bellies enjoy playing games?”

“No Baba.”

“This is why they say ‘it takes a whole village to raise a child.’ But each adult in that village must take care of his responsibilities so that the children might be happy and flourish.”

“Yes. I see Baba.” Baba Sumbay smiled and pinched Jaro’s cheeks.

“Sooooo! Who is winning?” Baba said, recognising the game.

“I am up 8 shell’s.”

“You have time to play with an old man?”

Jaro, smiled and nodded. So Baba came and joined the game with the children. 4 of which were Jaro’s grand nephew’s. They loved to come to the farm and play games with the champion of the village whenever their mothers would allow it. So for sometime they continued the game, and it became clear that youth could not make up for experience, as Baba beat one player after another finally defeating his son, who was sure he could finally score a victory over the old man. So everyone joyously spent the day playing games and eating Mama Sumbay’s finest Okra stew and plantains. As the sun began to set, and day turned to evening, Mama Sumbay began to prepare the fire place. After a while one of the boys asked of Baba “Please Baba, tell us about the history of our village.” The other children joined the chorus, beseeching Baba regale them with one of his many tales. Baba, was famed for his storytelling. His memory for events and vividness of description were always highly sought after by children and adults alike. So he took the children over to the fire place to sit down and he asked “What story would you like to hear?” Immediately the children responded, ‘the story of Jaro, Mzee’ even though they’d heard it many times before. As we all know young children take much comfort in repetition, so much so, that even when introducing them to new food or games that one day they will surely love, still they beg and cry for what they are familiar with. Jaro himself, rolled his eyes. “But you’ve told me this story many times Baba.” But the children kept pleading. “Please Mzee. Please. Tell us the story of Jaro.” And so Jaro finally acquiesced, and Baba promised to tell it in a different way than Jaro had ever heard before. So, Baba sat back smoking his tobacco weed, and began telling the story as only he could:

“All heroes begin their path in what the Uyuta call their significant cave. Raised in the cave that sheltered them in their spiritual childhood from the chaos that resides outside its walls. But the cave while providing order and stability, also shelters the naive soul from the light. From what could be learned from chaos. It is an important day in any heroes life the day the Gods call upon them with a mission in mind. Many heroes refuse the Gods at first, preferring the comfort of their cave, but nonetheless the quest is set and whether it be nobility of character or love of family, or the coming of war each hero finally accepts the quest is his destiny. So they pick up tools and fruits left for them by the Gods to aid them on their journey, some may even craft some weapons before journeying out the cave into the sunlight and into the many dangers that await them…”

By now the children and Jaro were wrapped. Where was the wise Oldman going with this? The children did not understand. After all they were raised in the village by their mama’s, not in a cave. Nonetheless, the story fascinated them.

“… So it is said that the hero does not complete his journey until once again he returns to his cave, back again to the familiar, back again to order, but now with new wisdom and treasures snatched from the narrow jaws of defeat and adventure. Once back in the cave, resting with his treasures, knowing he has changed the world, knowing he has grown into a man, the hero can finally truly appreciate his cave, and prepare for his soul to rest in peace.”

Baba stopped for a while, looking to see if the boys had understood anything he’d said. Then he continued to tell the story of Jaro.

Jaro’s birth was not seen by anyone. On the day he was found by the kindly Vassal of the Chief, over the maze fields a glowing ball of light, whooshed through the sky like a falling star, as if it were being guided by the hand of Ayimi herself. As it ripped through the sky Baba Sumbay gazed dazzled by the strange light that pulsated like a ball of dragon fire spit from the suns.

It was for this reason that it was said Jaro was delivered to Baba and Mama Sumbay as a gift to the village for keeping faith in the spirits despite enduring many sorrows. Always presenting their harvests to Oboyenguay, and Chief alike whether abundant or scant. Though Mama Sumbay came from a long line of fertile women with ample hips who’d birthed many happy children, she was yet to succeed in giving birth herself. Each time her blood did not come, she would rush to tell Baba and they would celebrate with assorted meat stews made from freshly slaughtered livestock and they would sing, play instruments and dance lively while pouring palm wine for the neighbours who joined them in their festivities. However, they would never forget to offer tribute to the Gods, and thank them for their many blessings.

Yet every time Mama Sumbay’s water broke and she began labor, her efforts were met with devastating results. The midwives wailed pronouncing another of Mama Sumbay’s babies stillborn. Each one would cry for Mama Sumbay wondering why the Gods would do this to such a pious woman. Even Baba Sumbay after the 6th time began to question how he might have offended the Gods, to not bless him with a son or daughter. But Mama Sumbay would hold him tight, reassure him and remind him never to question the Gods ‘for they know best’ and that there was a reason for everything they did, even those things that seemed unjust. She quoted a proverb passed down from generation to generation of her family, one that her mother claimed her grand mama told her her own Grand mama had told her, meaning it went back at least 7 generations of her family. Her mama told her “The truth that was lost in the morning, comes home in the evening.” Meaning that until the story ended, the truth of its inner meaning could not be comprehended by the limitations of the human mind and that while every joy and triumph is succeeded by a sadness and loss, don’t be foolish to believe that joy and triumph will not one day return again.

Baba smiled that impish smile, that smile that conveyed infinite kindness and a soul without malice, along with that twinkle in his eye that immediately notified you of the life and dancing spirit that dwelled within him. He looked at his wife and kissed her. Perhaps the Gods had not blessed him with children, but they had certainly given him the most beautiful and wonderful of wives, he thought. And so the story of Baba and Mama Sumbay continued, until one day the local medicine man pronounced Mama Sumbay’s last blood. And to be certain he even consulted the shells and their ominous reading was final. It seemed, all hope was lost that Mama Sumbay would ever be pregnant again. Her sisters who once gloated that they had had more than 8 children each, and that the Gods must have favoured them more, now regretted the wickedness of their youth, and came to pray with Mama Sumbay and to the witch doctor, that the Gods might take pity on their sister and grant her a child. To be sure it took time. Another seven cycles in fact but finally it seemed the spirits answered.

One morning when Baba Sumbay, was dutifully collecting maze from the maze fields, ensuring to separate the finest produce so that he could present them to the Chief as tribute for the soldiers and their war effort, he saw a most peculiar yellow light, streaming through the sky, racing toward the high grass plains. Mesmorised by its beauty, he decided to follow it to the Grasslands. Where finally the yellow light stopped and shone down on a patch of grass. Low and behold, to his amazement, amongst the blades of grass, he heard the cooing and laughter of an infant. Thinking his senses must be tricking him, he ran over to where the light shone brightest. That’s when he saw it. Laying there was a new born. But not just any new born. This one was strapping and strong and perhaps the size of a full grown Turkey. His skin was cinnamon brown and unblemished. His eyes pure and pleasant. And though the child was abandoned there in the grass, it lay there laughing. But before Baba Sumbay could process what he was seeing he noticed a python by the boys side. The Python was well known in the village. So feared in fact that they named him hasa, meaning death bringer in Uyuta. Already this one Python had killed five villagers this cycle. Baba Sumbay acted bravely and quickly, attempting to draw the snake away from the boy using himself as bate, so the deadly serpent began lunging between him and the boy.

The python fought tactically ensuring he remained a barrier between Baba Sumbay and the child. But what Baba Sumbay saw next to this day he swears is the sight that marked his whole fate, and why the spirits put him in this village. The infant with out hesitation grabbed the snake by the tail and threw it so far that it was thought that he launched it into the next village. The Village of Abacha, ruled by the tyrant Chief himself. In fact sometime later, an elder soldier of the village claimed the serpent had been seen in the soldiers Baracks of the Chiefs Guard.

Baba Sumbay picked up the boy, who immediately cooed in his arms, delighted to be coddled. But on the way back home, through the immense heat the baby began to whimper. Hungry and tired the child instinctually sought out the comfort of a woman’s bosom. So Baba Sumbay rushed back to his hut, where his wife was hanging out the clothes she washed at the river, and he presented the baby to her. Mama Sumbay was stunned and asked to know everything that had happened and how he come across the boy.

By then the child was crying for milk. But Mama Sumbay was unsure she was even capable of producing milk to feed the child. During her pregnancies no milk had come. But Baba Sumbay nonetheless encouraged her to try and said if she could feed the child, it was a sign from the Gods that the child was hers. So she sat down in her straw chair, hidden in the shade and began to let the child suckle at her breast. At first she worried she might be dry because she felt nothing coming out, but suddenly she saw the baby taking massive gulps and he held her close. They decided to name the boy after her grandmother who had told her the proverb that kept her faithful all these years of being barren. And thus they named him Jaro. From that moment on he remained the happiest of children in all of Uyuta, but more on his childhood later.

Some hypothosized that Jaro was sent from the laughing God of the sky, due to his jolly disposition.

However the more popular theory was that he grew from the tongue of the soothsayer and mystic cave painter Nami who lived in the woods and was in touch with the 3 weavers of destiny. The 3 weavers who sowed the cosmos together using a needle and thread made from time, space, and spirit. There they stiched together each of our journeys through life. The old man Nami only spoke in riddles. In his younger days he sat mumbling to himself by the Kwanza Sea, watching the wistful waves as the women sang washing their garments in warm salty waters. Every once in a while a fisherman would come along “Look at him. Now he talkin nonsense to the sea. What de for you Nami?” The fisherman continued. “Nami, what are you talkin’, now?” He would ask and the people of the village would gather and listen. Drinking his palm wine he would address them.

“I speak of tomorrow brothers and sisters.” Then he’d manically begin his sermons.

“That’s what the wind spirits were. The river spirits. The great ancestor who was a wolf, dreamt into existence by the first men. Dreamt into existence by the beasts and the milk trees and the patches of grass scattered about the arid landscapes that made up our home. The home of prideful warriors, who woke up and sung, gave hymn to the ancestors and their blood, that had long since baked into the soil of our many chiefdoms. Yes the great ancestor was born of our suffering but also our joy and remained with us, for all this time. Yet one could not help wonder if he’d abandoned us in our bondage.” Nobody understood. And he’d continue speaking to himself, sometimes the whole night, as if the audience still remained with him.

Because of this the villagers saw him as no use. They could not comprehend him as a mystic. He was useless as a farmer or vassal for the king. He had no business being a soldier because of his brittle composition.

For many cycles, all he would do was wonder from village to village, beach to beach, market place to market place, addressing the spirits and dieties like Esta and someone called Sant Kathrine that none of the Villagers had even heard of. So when one day he decided to leave the village all together and live in the woods alone in one of it’s many caves, it came as a relief to many of the townspeople. Every once in a while he would venture back into town, seemingly panicked, trying desperately to convey some message. And though the mystics and priest tried, no one could read his shells. They seemed to be speaking of nonsense.

So he would go to the farmers, gesture to them, humbly begging them for food, but frequently they would turn him away. The only one who always welcomed Nami was Baba and Mama Sumbay. One day, in his 11th cycle Jora was told the story of Nami the cave man and intrigued he decided to travel into the woods to find him. When finally he arrived at Nami’s cave, he entered, and he heard the echoes of Nami speaking to himself, as he came closer he saw that he was himself by the fire. Again, he spoke in riddles Jaro couldn’t comprehend. Before Jaro had even come into the light, Nami gestured for him to sit beside him and warm himself, before he caught a chill.. The old man content smiled and said to him “You come so soon to trouble the dragons at the gate.” Jaro looked at him confused and Nami laughed and poked the boy to tickle him. It was then to Jaro’s astonishment that he looked at the walls of the cave, lit up by the flickering flames, he saw every inch of the walls covered in magnificent paintings. Paintings as far as the eye could see. Paintings of the Gods and Goddesses communing with man. Paintings of the many battles and history of the noble Uyuta tribe. Paintings depicting the succession of Chiefs, the murders and betrayals, the rises and falls of Tyrants. Paintings that seemed to depict the birth of the cosmos itself. There were even paintings that seemed older than Jaro’s birth, that conveyed histories that were yet to be. Amazed by this he smiled at Nami and fell to his knees to honour the old man. Nami lifted Jaro to his feet and pointed firmly at the boys heart.

Once Nami fell asleep the boy rushed home and told everyone what he’d seen. The gossip spread far and wide reaching even the Chief’s top advisors who became intrigued and arranged a Royal convoy so the Chief could see the mysterious cave for himself.

When the Chief and the villagers finally saw what Nami had done, he decided to offer Nami the job of one of his consultants which would have made him one of the wealthiest men of the tribe. Nami however, seemed like he did not want to leave his shabby dwellings. The cave was now his home. So instead the wise chief issued a decree, a law ordering all his faithful vassal , from that day forth, to put aside a portion of the Royal tribute from each harvest and take it to the caves so that Nami would never go hungry again, and he might continue his work in peace. The chief also sent one of his chief advisors and witch doctors to regularly visit the wondrous caves so that with their learning they might properly interpret their meaning. For he was sure that the madman Nami, might be a spirit-tongue, through who the Gods were speaking, trying to warn us of things to come. It was in one of the paintings that there was a depiction of Jaro in the womb, but the womb was not the belly of a woman, but in fact Nami’s swollen tongue.

Funeral Of A Jackal Prince

It is worth it now to tell a little of the history of the noble Snake Riders and their odyssey from wards of the village to the emancipated, self-sufficient warrior community they now were. However, first, we must take a small detour to the solemn day a jaguar prince died.

The rains had just come in when Alabansa unhappily received the body of his son. It was a sad day for Chief Alabansa Oyekon when his favoured and eldest son perished in the battle of Boogy River. It took several of Chief Ori Mbatsu finest troops to floor the legendary warrior Prince Kwasi, but finally he met his end, spear in gut, and arrow through the eye. Thus the battle of Boogy River concluded with the brave Leopard skins (otherwise known as the Uyuta tribe) victorious.

Chief Ori had taken no pleasure in discovering the loss of his nephew and immediately made arrangements for the boys corpse to be delivered to his brother who was eagerly anticipating word of his sons fate. It was in fact the Jago soldiers witnessing the sad fall of their mightiest sword that made them lose faith, and make a hasty retreat back to the kings compound in Abacha. Seeing their great folk hero fallen, with a bloody tear running down his impaled eye socket, rains pouring on his wounded body as he sunk into the blades of grass that covered the battlefield - their king also, nowhere to be found - was enough for the Jago’s to accept that the Gods had not favoured their spears that day.

The following day the boys body was delivered back to Abacha, the newly found capital of Alabansa’s kingdom where his royal courts were stationed. Chief Ori sent the body to his brother with condolences, so that he might receive the proper ceremonial funeral of an honoured soldier. On seeing her sons dead face his mother beside herself began wailing and shrieking and embracing his battered body hysterically until the poor woman eventually collapsed from grief. His father, a seasoned warrior was no less inconsolable. Alabansa carrying his sons lifeless body to rest in his hut for one last night before his funeral, cried to the ancestors and the Gods of the land, swearing revenge on “The imposter king.” He himself had retreated from the battle after seeing thousands of his soldiers bodies scattered all over the river bank. The long grass of the Savannah sprayed crimson and gleaming in the suns bright light thanks to the blades of fallen spears that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Alabansa hadn’t received the body of his son kindly. He pounded the couriers to death in mortar with elephant tusks. He then ordered their pureed viscera to be mixed with baphia nitida dye and applied to the funeral dancers as mourning paint. Prior to this the poor bearers of bad tidings had been subjected to agonising tortures. Hooks placed through their shoulder blades, armpits and backs. Innumerable flesh wounds carved into them. After which grounded bell peppers had been applied to the wounds, and rubbed deep into their throats, nose and anus.

What was left of their skull and heart were placed on the burning float beside the Prince.

The mourners gathered under grass thatching canopies. No local dignitaries outside the encampment dared attend the Prince’s funeral, for fear of what Alabanza might demand of them. Quite frankly, they’d be lucky if they made it out alive. So the funeral was mainly attended by warriors who had dignified themselves on the battlefield and been elevated to noblemen by the king, sobas who had turned side during the long drought believing the Gods were punishing them for electing a false king. Then there were the musicians and colorful lady entertainers. The whole event was quite the spectacle.

The rain poured hot and splatted thick as cooking oils the day of the funeral. The droopy faced lead calabash player, plucked his hunters harp with such furious tenacity that his smokey eyes seemed alight and his eggy cheeks sweated profusely, compromising his ritual paints. The the ivory trumpet players cheeks puffed up like Rhino Frogs while the LONGA drummers hands had become blurs from their spirited tattoo. As the Queen rode through the forest footpath, toward the river bank, on her palanquin lifted by four stout officers of the Royal Court, all eyes were on it, awaiting the grieving mother to open her curtains and alight from her coach. The mothers along with the wives were usually the focus of cremation rituals. They tended to set the tone. If she screamed and hollered and wept, the attendees would sing for her and lavish her with comforts and make spectacles of their loss as they said their last words to the deceased. If she entered with strength, dignity, grace and a quiet fortitude, then the entertainments would become lively, and the mourners would sing almost joyously extolling the accomplishments of the departed. Stepping out of the coach, eyes met her with awe and wonder, due to her lavish costume, draped in all the magnificence which a profusion of silks and women’s finery could furnish. Apparently she seemed over the worst of it and as she entered under the thatched grass roof of the Royal Canopy and sat next to her husband on the royal stools, she maintained her composure, letting only a few tears escape her misty eyes.

Her husband King Alabansa sat there with his 5 wives gathered around, with a grave, vacant expression. But that wasn’t out of character for Alabansa. The only time pleasure ever crossed his face was when he was mutilating an enemy or perhaps in his younger years in his mothers embrace. His eyes were extreme, always focused and paranoid, searching the world with such vigour that one could imagine them almost popping out from his head. He was handsome enough for a monarch, with a big bushy beard, bald head, and imposing figure, that was on the plump side.

He had positioned himself on a rich platform where the Queen joined him on the nearest stool. He was naked from the waist up, with a crown made of his enemies bones resting to the side of his scalp; on his shoulders a Leopard’s tail smeared in blood. From his waist down he was covered with damask cloth, and around his neck he wore a shark tooth necklace with a baby sea dragon tooth at its centre.

The LONGA drum echoed through the forest, as the painted medicine woman danced and chanted, shaking her rattles, contorting her body around the courtiers in an epileptic manner both manic and delirious. Her voice hissing and cracking like a spider as she spoke: “Oh dear mother. Oh dear father. And dear Oba. We the Jago, whose name is death itself. Oba the immortal one, who knows Calunga. Guided by Jabari, who sings and dances with Shango. We who wash ourselves in the blood of Leopards. We can never really die. We pick the rain stones from the stream, so that dear Prince Kwasi who dances the soldiers dance with legendary warriors in the afterlife, will rain his blessings on our spears for many seasons. For when charged with purpose a man can never truly die…” Many Jago soldiers lined up by the river painted in all black and collected black rain stones to give to Kwasi’s mother, so she could place it in the clay bowl shrine that sat in her royal hut where many of her family members - going back generations - rain stones were kept. This was the proper ritual for any warrior who had lived a righteous life. The rain stones transformed him into water, so that his spirit may forever live with his ancestors in the rain.

The pelican dancers circled the body of the fallen captain, having ripped their satin patterned, lace wraps, shaking their alluring behinds the kings way, then over the body of the prince. ”Immortal one of rain and fire Oboyenguay done bless you” they chanted, as they spun around and twisted at fantastic speeds to the beat of the animal priestesses songs of lament and mortal defiance.

“Are you happy now?” The queen said queerly.

“He’s not dead.” Albans muttered incoherently.

“What?” The Queen replied dumbfounded.

“Leave the dead some room to dance.”

The king said softly, ignoring her as he got up from his stool and stepped out from under the shelter. Moved by the music he lost himself for a moment, if only Jabari was handling the laments. She had power with Shango in her tongue. She might even raise the boy from the dead. But alas even the medicine woman Jabari known to commune with evil spirits who only met men on their worst days was reluctant to cast necromancer spells.

This was the kings folly Alabansa grieved. He had left the battle early when devious Uyuta warriors led his troops into a trap, kissing the Jago’s with a firestorm.

The Oba (King Alabansa) Should have collected his boy right then. He knew his hot headed son’s valour would send him charging into the blinding smoke. He’d raised him that way. Of course he was proud that despite being outnumbered and stranded in an enemy pincer, the prince nonetheless took out a great many soldiers before he was taken down.

He couldn’t even look at his wife, the boys mother Queen Rahima, who in turn regarded the king with a mocking derision.

“Look atchu. The music de fine, fine, my king?” She whispered as he returned to the stool.

“It is fitting tribute.” She kissed her teeth at his last statement, cutting her eyes at him. Not many women got to speak to Alabansa that way, but she was the mother of his two favoured children, Prince Kwasi and his daughter Eshan.

“You look very stupid today. You understand me? Very stupid. No one will tell you, but it is true.”

“I wish the boy could hear this music play for him.” The king answered in a non sequitur.

“You are moved?”

“Yes, I am moved.”

“You are a fool. I married you for your strength. I thought you could protect us. Instead you let my son die fighting your stupid war.”

“What you want from me?”

“Mighty general. Courageous leader. Chief Alabansa. Pitiful! — You know I too old now to bear children. I can never have another son. Everything I love you have taken away from me.” She said in a whisper, so only the king could hear.

The mournful melody of the musicians intensified, as priestess voice boomed over singing her laments: “We have brought all these beautiful things for our prince and our soldier.”

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.” The Jago’s yelled, danced and applauded.

“May we fe give’ am now. Tonight we go decorate where for he be laid. These are things he will have with him in the spirit world. Here are pillows, sheets and cloth, so he may rest his body now.” And a few royal slaves scattered over to the burning float where the Prince lay with his panther emblazoned shield, black war skirt, painted in black to the neck, with two black rain stones covering his eyes and his favourite spear all resting majestically with him on the fire wood. The slaves dropped fine silk sheets, pillows and folded dashiki’s on the burning float.

“Here is banana beer so may he quench himself and feel merry in the next world.”

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.”

“The widow presents feathers of the Elox Bird, so he can soar with the souls of the Afterlife.” Then the slaves placed an impressive sized white feather with red freckles next to the Spear.

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.” “She also give him plenty plantains and yams so his belly full full forever.”

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.”

“And his soldiers give him snuff, so that he might relax himself.”

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.”

“Mama, sends him his fathers spear. Since it should have been his inheritance.”

“Ee-ye-ye-ye-eee.”

“And since his father doesn’t need it.” The Queen mocked under her breath.

“What did you say?”

“Oh you’re hard of hearing, now? I said my king, since you are so fond of music, maybe you swap nah swop sword for the kora. (Typical instrument only women play), that way if you want, you can play with the rest of the female musicians.”

All this happened in slow motion for Alabansa who sat deeply contemplating the calabash players dirge as he watched the female dancers fat naked round bottoms twisting and whining in the rain which whipped off their hinds on to the vanquished body of his son. Laying their on the Prye in blacked-out warrior garb, muscular, sword at his side, the boy even in death cut a dashing figure. He was everything a father, neigh a king could ever want in an heir.

All the colour drained from the world for Alabansa until everything seemed to be consumed in blood red. Suddenly he let out a roar that echoed through the forest, so primal that certain nearby animals took stock, fearing it might be a predator. The king at once pounced on the plump-faced plucker of the calabash and commenced his own drum beat about the body and brains of the poor instrumentalist, with his bronze knobcerrie which had a dragon tooth as a hook, that doubled for his sceptre. The sound of him crushing the mans skull while letting out his ungodly cry, was haunting even for the most hardened spectator. Only the queen seemed to take pleasure in the squishing sound as the mans skull began splintering into fractured bone, mushed with red and white matter, oozing out the wounds. Then he began cracking at his arms chest and legs until they became as contorted as the rest of him. By now his eyes were vacant, and he was barely wheezing out a last death rattle from his foaming mouth. The rest of the crowd fell silent.

“He is not dead! I saw it in my dreams!”

He looked around the crowd searching amongst the stupefide eyes of his audience for anyone who dared doubt him.

“Fail me again, soldiers… I will remove your tongue and eyes. Understand me?!… And you, medicine bitch, where was Oboyenguay, heh? Where was she when the smoke killed my soldiers?”

The king was right. The medicine woman had swayed him away from tributes to Shango The Death God. She claimed it was bad juju to mess with such evil spirits, against Jabari’s recommendations. So before the battle all the Jago soldiers gave tribute to the spirits of the land and prayed for Oboyenguay to bless their steel. The whole day during the battle, the two suns shone brightly, so much so the heat on the open plain grasslands, was so hazy that men at a distance seemed like Mirages.

For half the day the weather remained the same and while the firestorm blinded the Jago’s path the twin suns heat went unchallenged. Yet, mere moments after Prince Kwasi fell, the clouds began to stir, and gather in force and suddenly the rains broke, clearing the fires and the smoke away. The King couldn’t help think had the rains come earlier, my boy might still be alive. It was said to be bad luck to murder a priestess who spoke with God tongue, and especially on the day of ones sons funeral. However Alabansa, contemplated executing the foolish soothsayer for treason against the community…

“… And you, you foolish old crone. See if you can curse me still, when I cut out your tongue.” Alabansa yelled at the Medicine Woman, who shrank back cowed by his public scolding.

Pointing to some of his soldiers the king bellowed: “C’mon, Oya now. jook’am! jook’am!” The Order was given. The musicians were to die. Once the deed was done, the bodies of the musicians were placed beside the Prince on the burning float. It wasn’t until night that the rain drizzled down to a simmer. The mourners all stood by the bank and set the burning float downstream lit aflame by the archers burning arrow. Alabansa watched his boys body ascend into the rain, as the floats smokey tail, drifted toward the Black Mothers Sea.

“You think that was a wise idea?” Said, Rahima, unable to fathom what had come over Alabansa.

“Their music amused me. Kwasi will be amused too…”

“He died for nothing… Your boy…”

“The man is a fraud. Sitting in a court that belongs to me. That one day would have been your sons. Kwasi died a warriors death.”

Life is a nightmare one never wakes from, until one day an arrow in the eye Alabansa thought, as he watched the drifting final resting place of his son. As much as I love him, and love him he did, still if I were to do it all again, even my son isn’t an unreasonable price to pay, if one is fighting for justice. Anything to restore balance and order where the Gods and his own family had failed. Prince Kwasi was 14 rainy seasons old when he died.

For many weeks Alabansa stewed, swearing revenge on his brother “The fucking Peasant King.” as he often referred to him. For too long the imposter chief had confounded his efforts to win back what was rightfully his. The territory he called his home, Lionsgrave, of which, he was the rightful ruler. Yet, he found himself now ruler of a foreign land (The Tymarian Badlands). The Tymarian King. ‘Tymarian King’ Words he could piss on. For 16 rainy seasons those agonising words, that meaningless title, had brought him nothing but pain and suffering. The Tymarian King in those days was not yet known for his cannibalistic practices but his army, the Jago’s, were infamous for their unseemly and ferocious tactics in war.

They entered the towns roaring like wild dragons; pillaged and fired the houses, they slaughtered cattle to starve whole tribes; they danced, sang and howled the death songs of Shango until the two suns rose and the cockcrow gave its morning squawk; they stabbed and stabbed with the spear, hands never growing weary thanks to Jabari’s snuff potions. Alabansa would order dry burning grass to be heaped over soldiers still alive, so their writhing and death agonies could be heard across the savannah, warning nearby villages ‘the Jago’s were coming’. Their spear feared no soldiers. The boy soldiers were the worst. The ones who had been kidnapped from vanquished villages along the kwanza river and brainwashed by the Jago’s. 2 moons with the brigade commander and their wounds and nostrils filled with snuff snuff, the young cadets became so bereft of conscience that they could spear their own captive fathers without a second thought. In fact this was a Jago test for Boy Soldiers yet to hit puberty. Luckily for the maidens and old women, they were kept around as concubines or ladies-in-waiting for nobleman’s wives.

In these parts, there was much blood and history in the soil.

The story of the Jago’s victory over the former Tymarian King Chief Owolowo, was so infamous that it had spread far and wide and made them the most feared marauders in South Mozambia. After having killed Chief Owolowo and defeated his elite guard along the Tymarian river lands, the royal court in the capital Abacha had turned to chaos. Many of his siblings and children vied for power. While the sensible fled, in fear of what the Jago’s had in store for them. Intimidated into submission, when Alabansa ordered the assassination of Owolowo’s whole bloodline, siblings, wives, children and all, knowing the fearsome reputation of the approaching Jago’s, Tymarian nobles didn’t wait for the Jago’s arrival. They knew full well the consequences of defeat. So before the Jago’s stormed the capital themselves, while bathing, they speared Chief Owolowo’s eldest son. By daybreak the city was red with betrayal, every one of Chief Owolowo’s sons, daughters, wives and brothers and sisters were either dead or no where to be found. One of the local sobas who was in league with the assassins, sent a messenger with the hearts and heads of all the Chiefs family members in a sack to the Jago’s military camp. Thus began the reign of Chief Alabansa Oyekon Tyrant of the Tymarian Badlands.

CHAPTER 7: MEATY TREATS

The princess rode with purpose as her horned galloping swift, Vision, came to the edge of the capital, Orun Egun.

Once there, she made her way to the Mountain Sisters, toward the edge of the Night Forest, where Rimu’s Holy Cave was located.

Her hair drifted majestically in the harmattan as Vision travelled at a tremendous pace. The muscular legs of the galloping beast, bouncing off wet leaves raking up turf, covering several land leagues in hours.

One of the gifts Nzambi was given by the Goddesses, was the hunters senses. So that she could see and hear as clear as a Vampire Jackal. As she rode past the beaches where the giant trees reached from the deep base of the sea floor, high above the waters surface, she could sense the living spirit of the Island. She heard the old songs of Mozambia sung by bathing girls in the streams harmonise with the hilltops. She heard the dance of fallen warriors drift in the warm air. She heard the rain coming. She heard the waterfalls laugh and the crystalline dragon stone statues refract rays of sunlight. When listening intently enough, she even heard the shadows of the wind.

By the time they’d reached some distance into the forest, Vision was showing signs of fatigue. So the Zamina stopped to rest by a drinking stream. Vision took thirsty sips from the pool that fed the neighbouring streams, while the Zamina took one last look at the setting suns, as the twin sunsets deliquesced into the dark evening clouds.

Suddenly her meditative state was drowned out by sounds emanating from the neighbouring bank. She could see better than most in the dark, but still the insects croaks and cries, and thin echoes of the forest made the wild garden seem sinister and foreboding. As the volume increased, the haunting sounds of the forest spectres became more pronounced until they took a more definite form. Human voices, laughing, the smoke of a recently kindled flame, the oder of cooking fish, the uddering of honey milk cups from a young milk tree. She steered her senses toward the crackling fire.

The giggling voices weren’t ghosts at all. It was the voices of her two betrothed, Urulia and Booky. She was instantly reminded that her future wives had also been summoned to Rimu’s cave, to take part in the pre-tournament ritual. She felt giddiness stir in her heart, knowing she wouldn’t be the only one late to the ceremony.

A naughty smile formed on Nzambi’s cute but dirty face, as she plotted a childish prank against her friends, the two young riders.

Nzambi moved stealthily through the leaves and soil like a panther preparing to strike his unknowing prey. She could hear them nattering away, deep in discussion.

“She is more radiant than a thousand sunsets… Sweeter than the moon and stars… Is she not?” Urulia said while squeezing the last of the sweet juice out of the udder of a freshly plucked, white milk tree cup. Booky, her starry-eyed interlocutor, meanwhile steady handedly, heated her fish over the flickering furnace. Just then the two girls heard in the distance the moon call of a thirsty pack of nearby wolves. OWOOOOOOOO! OW OW OWOOOOOOOO!

“Oh god. This night is cursed.” Booky The Brave murmured with fright.

“Are you scared sister?” Urulia laughed.

“I’m in a haunted forest. Of course I’m fucking scared.” The howl continued. This time the pack felt closer.

“Don’t worry, brave sister. I’ll protect you”

“You hear them?” Booky, replied.

“Who?”

“The wolves. You understand them, don’t you? Are they coming our way?”

Urulia, listened intently to their call, as the wolves caterwauled back and forth to each other. Urulia’s eyes lit up like the moon and she called out to Montu herself.

“ Young meaty leg-walkers come’a wondering about our woods.” Sniff sniff “Gargantuan jugs, ripe and full a red-beer.” Sniff sniff “Ow ow ow ’Cunt leg-walkers. Smelling’a fools magic’” Urulia growled ‘Ow, ow, ow, owooooo.’ Sniff sniff. “Their stench is strong. Unholy simpletons messing with fools magic.” For a moment she broke out of the trance. “They- They can see us with their nose.” Then she went back in. “Arguing. Arguing amongst the pack. Ow. Ow. Owooooo. I’ve faced a leg-walker before. Fearsome pack. Hard to hunt. OWOOOOOO guide us.” Sniff sniff Urulia continued to interpret their howls as Booky listened intently, rapt, taking fleshy bites out of her juicy piece of herbed fish.

“‘We’ll eat’em, Drain’em juicy bosomed cunts of their red-beer. Owooooooooo!’… ‘Only if owooooo permits.’” Sniff sniff! Sniffed Urulia before bellowing OWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOO! “Their leader speaks ’Leave’em whore leg-walkers alone. Their fire’ll destroy’em soon. Daft bastards mess with fools magic. I’ll not lose another of our packs men to that. pray thee moon empress avenge us, deliver on thy promise that those who use fools magic shalt be punished by your mighty hand, and their red beer shalt float endlessly from the sky. OWOOOOOOOOOO OW OW OWOOOOOOOO! Owooooo has spoken packs men! We live to hunt another day.” Urulia broke from her trance: “I think we’re safe sister. For now.” As Urulia said this the wolf howls simmered down to a faint echo, receding into the bleak night. Booky sighed, a sigh of relief.

“What is it like? The dark gift?” Booky asked.

“What do you mean? What is it like?” Urulia answered. “Its like a never-ending chorus of chaos. The music of the world, playing, an indecipherable, undisciplined tune.”

“Wow. Is it terrible? What they say?”

“Honestly. Most of their clamour evades me dear sister.” Urulia replied. “Little of what they say makes sense to the human world, unless they are talking about hunger or pain.”

“…Do they worship? Do they have Gods like us?” Booky queried. “You mean like Owoooooo?!” Urulia exclaimed!

“Some do. But most, worship without sense. One day a Rock becomes their highest deity. The next day the dark. Others congregate at a watering pool as their holy place, only to entirely forget of its existence the next day. They praise and worship things of inferior rank, like a patch of dirt. Still others think we “Leg-walkers” are the Gods. But they fear the fire will destroy us.”

“On that, I might agree with them…”

“So many life-world’s… And the only thing that unifies them is the transcendental ache. The pang of hunger, the hunt for survival.”

“I don’t understand dear sister.”

“Hmmm! I don’t blame you.” Just then Urulia saw a brave soldier ant resolutely crawling through the soil, having lost his way from the colony. She gently picked it and displayed it in the light allowing it to march across her fingers “Look at this brave soul for instance. All he’s known his whole life, is the need to escape from the Giants finger. The need to get back and serve his Queen. No surrender to death or some unforeseeable eternal afterlife. Or realm of ancestor spirits. All he has is now. His entire memory. His mission and reason for being. ‘Escape the Giants evil lair, and get back to my Queen.’ — Go now poor fellow. Serve your queen with dignity as I serve mine.” With that she let the lowly beast go and bid it adieu. “A singular belief in the hunger that drives him. That is his God… Everything else, just is.” Urulia’s thought was interrupted by “AWOOOOOOOOOO!” Only this time the howl seemed to come from much closer. From behind the trees.

“… You said they were gone? —- ” Booky exclaimed in terror.

“…THEY WERE!” Urulia replied panicked.

“… AMBUSH?!” Booky said reaching for her blade.

“… No. I can’t hear them.”

Whoosh an arrow whistled by their heads landing in a stack of giant yew fruit shaped milk tree cups laying on the leaves beside her. Booky let out a little whimper, and recoiled. Were they under attack she thought? But how could this be? No foreign army would be foolish enough to set up camp on the edge of the Night Forest. Urulia instinctively took cover, cowering behind a near by shrub. She had the instincts of a thinker, rather than a warrior.

It was only then that the Zamina, revealed herself from the shadows behind the trees.

“Awooooooooo!” Nzambi bellowed out mockingly before breaking out into raucous mirth and laughter. Urulia and Booky gasped in shock. Then relief. It was only Nzambi. They both were used to her silly little games. She’d been fond of these childish pranks from a very young age. “Oh… My belly.” Nzambi roared with laughter. “My belly… It hurts… Look at you brave riders, running around like little hamsters…” The Zamina continued to split her sides, till she toppled over in a giggling fit, tears streaming from her eyes. “You two, might be, the bravest riders I’ve ever seen.” Nzambi remarked sarcastically. “Ohhhh my stomach… it hurts.”

“Ha ha ha. Zamina. You nearly frightened us half to death, you know that? Aren’t you getting a little old for such trite antics, your grace? Your mother certainly hopes so.”

“My mother may be a Tyrant, but she hasn’t robbed me of my sense of humour, quite yet, my love.” Nzambi replied.

“Speaking of your mother, she’s going to kill you, you know? You’re hours behind schedule Zamina. What were you thinking?” Booky reprimanded while still red faced before showing deference with a curtsy. Urulia who was somewhat amused kissed Nzambi on the lips.

“She has me training all day, for a war she’ll never let me fight. The least the Tyrant can do is let me sleep.

“… My mothers a wolf. Yours a Tyrant? What a pair we are…” Urulia added as she rapped her beloved Zamina with a blanket.

“And my mothers a fucking frog. Ribbit. Ribbit.” Booky fired back, once again initiating those girlish giggling fits so common of their age.

“You wrong though, Nzambi!” Booky uttered, almost as a passing thought.

“About what?”

“Your mothers no Tyrant. If she was, you’d be afraid to even utter those words. heir or no heir.”

“According to the oral histories I’ve studied, Tyrants need not be evil. Some may even be laudable if you get to know’em enough.”

“So what makes her a Tyrant in your eyes?” Urulia inquired.

“You can’t leave this Island can you? It’s outlawed. We’re prisoners in this so-called heaven.” Nzambi opined. “Just imagine, what could be.”

“Where?” Booky interjected argumentatively.

“Out there. Beyond the Dragon Pond sea. Just imagine.”

“But what more could you wish for? I can assure you, peace is preferable to the horrors and indignities we suffered in the Man Villages.” Booky exclaimed confused.

Booky knew this with absolute conviction. Though she was young, Booky had spent 8 long cycles in the man village. Booky’s older sister Gilede had joined the Snake Riders when she was 17, after having tendered a suiters genitals with a pipe for attempting to violate her. Booky’s feeble father, rather than breaking the man’s head, instead raged at his daughters conduct and apologised profusely to the rich cattle herder who had come all this way seeking his daughters hand. By then Gilede was a big woman and her father was too much a coward to try and give her the few slaps most fathers of his generation would have to a daughter who had offended their foresworn. That night Gilede ran away to the gates of the snake riders compound, and begged to join their ranks. After a while training with the troops Gilede became known as Gilede the brave. Most still saw the Snake Riders as witches, who did magic spells, so their horned horses did not suffer the humming fly disease. Gilede’s father was no different and daily he cursed Gilede from joining those pack of evil sorcerer bitches. And all his anger toward Gilede, he took out on Booky. Beating her daily to within an inch of her life. One day in the market place, Gilede caught sight of the poor child, shabbily dressed, filthy and bleeding. That day she determined she would take her to safety, to live with her sisters the Snake Riders. They arrived on the old man’s compound two days later and negotiated Booky’s release for some goats and a few bottles of palm wine. Booky was handed over to the Snake Riders. Gilede never saw her father again and Booky had been living with the Riders ever since.

Unfortunately Gilede was not so lucky. She perished during a daring rescue to retrieve the High Zami, who had been kidnapped by Alabansa. She fought with a courageous spirit, but was finally overwhelmed by the Jago warriors. The gutsy Gilede the Brave became a legendary warrior among the snake riders, and songs were still sung to this day in honour of her bravery. In fact she was so revered that after her funeral, a witch doctor pronounced that Gilede’s spirit had passed on to Booky. For this reason Booky was not allowed to attend her funeral, as it was bad ju ju for any warrior to attend their own wake. Since the tribe thought her spirit dwelled within Booky, Booky was named Booky The Brave.

Nzambi passionate and firey as she was fought back inspite of her sisters cautions. “I often dream it. That more exists out there than we could ever imagine… Beyond the Man-Villages. Would not just a single day of adventure riding out the storm and unrest of the Dragon Pond be worth more than a thousand days of the same old insufferable routine?”

“Nzambi your heart speaks truth child. Just imagine what adventures lie beyond our shores?”

“I should watch out. I believe too much time poeticising with Urulia has corrupted your young minds.”

“Now you’re just sounding like mother.” Nzambi smiled. “But think Booky. What does freedom mean if none of your choices have consequence? That is life on this island. I yearn for more than peace, I yearn for more than paradise, my heart yearns for love.”

Booky reached out clutching her precious Zamina’s hand concerned. “And you have it sister.” After a beat. “But you’re still wrong though. Everything she does is as a mother, not a Tyrant. And from what I’ve heard, all good mothers are somewhat Tyrants. They have to be.”

“A mother to who?” Nzambi protested.

“A mother to her people.” Booky, proclaimed boldly.

“Good for them. She always just seems disappointed in me.” Nzambi sighed.

“That’s not what I hear sister. I think you might just be the least disappointing thing she’s ever seen.” Urulia smiled, reassuring her.

The Princess had already tasted Booky as a lover, but had recently grown very close to her spirit touched sister Urulia, who spoke with the beasts. Urulia, the rebel, the poet, the lover of old songs of philosophy, history and beauty, enticed and excited Nzambi with her worldly mind. They also shared in common that both riders had been born of so-called magic. Nzambi of the Goddesses. While Urulia was thought to be a product of her mother having slept with another demon wolf, while herself in wolf form and soon after realising she was pregnant. Though it was forbidden for any snake rider to lay with a man, in this case it was pardoned. Rimu, too possessed by the spirit tongue these days, only had fleeting moments of lucidity, and therefore was deemed incapable of raising Urulia herself. Instead, Urulia was raised by the holy vestals of the temple huts. As soon as the Zamina was born, arrangements were made to prepare the two to be formerly betrothed once they’d come of age. Yet, much like Nzambi herself, blessed by a curious mind, she was very skeptical that she was the right person to satisfy this role.

Nzambi and Urulia had decided to wait until their wedding night, before formerly commencing their relationship as lovers. Even though such unsolicited frolicking was not frowned upon and in fact was actively encouraged amongst certain segments of the snake riders.

After having finished their fish, and giving their mounts enough rest, they all began the final lap of their journey.

As their horses trotted gently through the dark forest, the young Riders continued their banter. Talking that elevated talk that seemed so vital whilst in the spring of youth. They giggled and pontificated about nothing in particular at all and everything all at once.

At one point the young riders were brought to fits of irrepressible laughter, after

Urulia’s uncanny rendition of her mothers ceremonial speeches. “ ‘What am say mama? What am say?’… ‘SHUT UP jaray.’ Haven’t you heard? When the wind groans, the stupid they speak! The wise they listen. Be humble, when the wind de speak. Listen, listen, well, well. The spirits de speak with the voice of the wind… Wipe out your ears. Wipe’am thorough, thorough! clean, clean! I’ll do it myself.… Blow on these shells if you don’t want to die. Spit on’am. Mixee well with the blood of the sacrifice. If you drop in nah ear, the wax will be removed and you will hear the wind, sister. Listen to the message of the sky.” So they laughed and laughed and laughed.

“What do the Gods want with Goats Heads, anyway?” Urulia continued. And they laughed some more.

And they sang, and joked and fretted like young girls do.

They talked of cherished childhood memories together at the moon and harvest festivals. They spoke of how the older sisters would tease them. Tease them about Rimu’s cave and the sleepless nights that followed. Laying awake wondering when Rimu’s deamon wolf would come gobble them up for traducing their Goddesses. They spoke of their absentee mothers and how they didn’t need them, for they would be strong warriors one day. Stronger than their mothers even. They debated over whose saddle was the swiftest, reminiscing about their many heated contests on on the beach front and chuckled poking fun at Booky about that one time in her 15th Cycle she was vaulted several feet into the air by a wild Unicorn she boastfully declared she had broken-in. They spoke of how they would be sights to behold on their wedding night and the many weaver women who were bidding for the assignment of the royal wedding tailor.

And they spoke about their fears of things to come. The tournament. Becoming Queen. Their life together. Like all stubborn teens, they longed for freedom and independence and all the other phantasmagorias children conjure up about adulthood.

Ponderous.

Nzambi watched her friends and suddenly she thought of her immortality and a flash of her dream came back to her.

Nothing seems to stretch on, quite like youth. In our childhood the world is nothing but idle childhood chatter and infinite potential. Yes. It stretches on and on for hours; so that in those jovial conversations that seemed so significant in the moment, hours seem like days, days like months, months like a full cycle, and one cycle like whole lifetimes. So it stretches on mercilessly torturing us, so that there is no time to panic, as we anticipate with bated breath this massive ocean of life that awaits us. This secret chamber, our hidden fate, our innate potential, waiting to be unlocked

Yet, stubbornly, rather than enjoy and savour, we wish to accelerate the pace of our growth. Eyes turned to mutiny against this slumbering tide of time. What hubris, what madness we pursued while cushioned in the tender blossom of time. To push forward into the age of adulthood when time becomes a tempest. Crueler. A damning forest of perdition, in which we are forever lost. It hastens ahead at full speed, trouncing all hope and potential for change, before vanishing into eternal dust and detritus.

It was about this time that the 3 girls arrived at the mouth of Rimu’s cave. For the last stretch of their journey the footpath had got so misty that Booky had had to alight her horse and light a torch to brighten their way. The horses eyes twinkled in the profound darkness. This is when the entrance to Rimu’s spooky residence, the terrible fairytale that in their childhood had kept them up at bedtime finally took on corporeal form, a fearful road into the many terrors of the night. To the front of the mouth of the cave, was an aesthetic aporia, an incongruent visual tapestry, completely at odds with the verdant forest the girls had come to know. Each one of them almost in concert had the thought should I leave? None had ever visited Rimu’s cave, as a Rider was only permitted on these hallowed grounds once one had had their first blood and come of age. Wild arid winds howled like moon dogs as they dismounted their steeds. Urulia had to calm the horses to prevent them from bolting. Buzzards girded the heavens, preying on the creatures of the slumbering night. The few trees that grew from the infertile grounds around the cave were naked, stripped of life, just dead stumps with spindly branches.